


All Good Things Come to an End

by spikesgirl58



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 03:06:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon and lllya return to New York and have a very different reception waiting for them.  It's all well and fine until Napoleon goes missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Good Things Come to an End

 

 

 Two men walked wearily past the Customs counter, the taller of the pair leading the way.  It was obvious from the way he carried himself that he was a man used to taking charge, making the rules, then ignoring them and issuing whatever orders he needed to get the job done.  The second man gave the impression of being the type who would follow those orders, no matter how bizarre or impractical, with no questions or hesitation.

 

 "I tell you, Illya."  Napoleon Solo, the leader, shifted his suitcase from one hand to the other.  "If they don't do something with that madman, the world is going to be hearing from him."

 

 "I agree.  The next thing you know, he'll be wearing a blue turban."  Illya Kuryakin brushed his blond hair back from his forehead.  While Napoleon was a born leader, it was the Russian who was the thinker.  At the silence that followed, he added, "Nostradamus, Napoleon.  He predicted that the world would fall to a Third World fanatic wearing a blue turban."

 

 "Huh."  Napoleon readily accepted Illya's words as true ‑ his partner was not known for stretching the truth ‑ at least not on his own time.

 

 They threaded their way through the never-ending bustle of La Guardia Airport, neither appearing to pay any attention to the passersby, yet both could and would respond to any attack from THRUSH at a moment's notice.  They'd been UNCLE agents too long to be easily taken unaware. Besides, Mr. Waverly would have their paychecks if they were any other way.

 

 "You need a ride home?" Napoleon asked the blond.

 

 "You've no doubt got one lined up?"  At Napoleon's smile and nod, Illya shook his head.  It never ceased to amaze him how Napoleon managed his affairs.  Their plane hadn't landed thirty minutes ago and the suave, dark-haired American had already arranged a night on the town.  Of course, to give the man credit, he could also plan a successful storming of a THRUSH installation in fifteen.

 

  "She should be outside Baggage," Napoleon directed, not bothering to see if Illya was following.  They'd barely gotten from the confines of the main terminal before a horn blared and a red‑head, standing on a car seat, waved to them.  This was a remarkable feat, considering the car wasn't parked.

 

 "Napoleon, honey, here I am!"

 

 Napoleon returned the gesture and grinned warmly at his partner, digging an elbow in his side.   Illya went to the other extreme, becoming dourer as the convertible drew closer and the woman's features grew more...outstanding. There were times when he envied his partner's casual, easy‑going relationships with members of the opposite sex. He wished he wasn't quite as insecure around women, but acknowledged it as part of his makeup, a part that seemed to work as much against him as for him.  Women found him distant, unobtainable and instead of being discouraged, tried twice as hard for him.

 

"And how are we tonight, Miss Dyer?"  Napoleon bent and kissed her hand warmly, then tossed his suitcase into the backseat.  "Mind if we give this little ragamuffin a ride home?"

 

The green eyes studied Illya until he began to feel like a side of beef in a butcher's showcase.

 

  "No, he looks...” The gaze dropped lower and the smile grew.  "Harmless."

 

 "Absolutely."  Napoleon apparently didn’t notice or care. "Even had him declawed last week."  Napoleon pulled the seat back forward and permitted the slender Russian access to the rear seat.  Illya found the arrangement to his liking.  He had momentarily harbored the fear that he'd be stuck in the front and it looked much too full already.

 

 The ride through rush hour traffic was hot, frustrating and unnerving, at least from Illya's point of view.  The driver had difficulty keeping her hands on the wheel and off Napoleon; so much so that Illya began to rediscover all those childhood prayers he thought he'd long forgotten. Finally, he pried his grip free from the seat and leaned forward to tap Napoleon's shoulder.

 

"Napoleon, let me off at the corner.  I'll walk the rest of the way."

 

"It's okay, Illya, it's just a few more blocks."

 

"Please, Napoleon, I'd rather walk.  I need the exercise, all that time I spent cooped up in that hotel room."  He nearly chuckled.  THRUSH would be quite distressed to hear their cells referred to as hotel rooms.

 

 That seemed enough for Napoleon.  He leaned closer to the redhead, caressing her neck at the same time.  In a moment, the car had pulled over beside a fire hydrant just long enough for Illya and his suitcase to barely get free before speeding off again, nearly running over a Good Humor Man in the process.  The last sight Illya had of Napoleon was a pair of taillights and a whirlwind of red hair.

 

 Relieved, he picked up the suitcase and started home, this time on foot.  A sudden idea struck him and he hurried his steps until he came to a familiar, dirt-streaked door. From within, strains of mariachi music drifted free onto a waning Brooklyn Heights day.

 

Smiling, Illya stepped down the two stairs and stuck his head inside.  “ _¿Hola Garcia cómo esta?”_

 

Immediately, a chorus of “¿ _Oye, el fugitivo, donde usted fue?”_ and " _Hola, Hola_!" greeted him and Illya entered, setting his luggage down by the front door, feeling very much welcomed and at home.

 

 A half an hour later, he resumed his trek. His step was only slightly faltering from the margaritas, but his hand was secure on the white paper sack he carried.  It was a tricky task and when a familiar staircase loomed off to his right, he was more than ready for it.

 

Two older women sat on the steps, one holding a broom across her lap.  When Illya approached, both corrected their posture and one even went so far as to pat self-consciously at her graying hair.  Not that she was interested in the Russian, but she did have a daughter of marrying age who would be perfect for the skinny, little blond; maybe she could even put some meat on his bones.

 

 "Welcome home, Mr. Kuryakin," she spoke, using her hands to iron out the wrinkles in her shift.  “We missed you.”

 

 "Thank you, Mrs. Pengale.  How has New York been?"

 

"Hot," responded the other, waving a hand in front of her face to move the still air. 

 

"At least it must have helped your arthritis, Mrs. Conkley.  And how is your new grandbaby? "

 

“An angel, a complete angel.  How was Argentina?"

 

 "About the same, hot and they're overthrowing another government."  He neglected to mention that he and Napoleon had started the movement though.  He shifted past them and moved into the small, almost negligible foyer of the apartment building.

 

 His mailbox was empty and he smiled.  Mrs. Hudson was still on the job.  Illya took a deep breath and began his assault on the stairs.  After three stories, he stopped, set down his burden and panted.  UNCLE could really use something like this at their training center, not that it was necessary for a well-rounded spy, but it would be a boon to those unused to city living.  He knelt to dig a small package out of the battered suitcase and then walked to a freshly washed door.  He tapped on it gently, two knocks, then one.

 

 "Yes?" The voice from behind the locked door was cautious.

 

"It's me, Mrs. Hudson.  Just wanted to let you know I was back."

 

 "Oh, Illya, sweetheart, you’re home!"  The chains started to rattle and he smiled, another price they paid for city living.

 

Fifteen minutes later, with still another bag to carry, he struggled up the last few flights to his apartment.  This time, he didn't bother to catch his breath for the floor was vacant and he wanted to make the most of the moment.

 

 He set everything down and dug out his wallet.  From a compartment, he pulled out a plain plastic card.  For all intents and purposes it looked like a regular credit card, and he turned it sideways to run it along the crack in his door.  After THRUSH had broken into a fellow agent's rooms and made off with the occupant and several important documents, UNCLE had devised this new security device.  It worked fine, except Illya had developed a reputation for always forgetting his keys as so many tenants had seen him work the card on his door.  One more snide comment and he was afraid he'd lose his temper.

 

This time, only a cat was present in the corridor and he didn't want anything to do with the human, at least he didn't until he got a whiff of the white bag's contents.  Immediately, he headed for the Russian and began to wrap himself around the pair of legs.

 

"Forget it."  Illya used one foot to push him back. "You eat mice; that's what you're contracted for."

 

 The sensor devices deactivated, he opened the door and stepped in, closing it hurriedly lest he get an unwelcome visitor.  Miffed, the tabby lifted his tail and returned to his previous path.

 

 No matter how often he traveled or moved, home always looked good to him ‑ at least for a few days.  Then the itch would return and with it a desire to be anywhere but where he was.

 

 Illya set the white bag and the mail down on the counter and took the suitcase to the bed. Long experience kept him from unpacking; instead he just took out the dirty clothes and his shaving kit.  He would replace the missing items in the morning and would be ready to leave again, except for possibly tossing in an overcoat or bush shorts, depending on where his boss sent him next.  UNCLE could be counted on to be unpredictable.  He pulled off his suit jacket and unstrapped his shoulder holster, hanging it on a corner of the bed, within easy reach should the need arise. The coat joined the suitcase.

 

His stomach reminded him that there were more important tasks at hand than sorting out his dirty laundry and he tossed the entire bag in the relative direction of the hamper before returning to the counter.

 

 He sipped carefully at the _Abondigus_ soup as he started to sort through the stack of mail that had collected in the weeks that he was gone.  Most of it was junk and went directly into the trash.  The truly important correspondence went directly to UNCLE to be opened, sorted, routed and re‑routed until, by some miracle, it appeared on his desk, usually within hours of its arrival.

 

He divided the remaining pieces into either a 'save' or a 'better check first' pile.  Into the first went magazines, the occasional check for some article he'd written, renewal notices, and letters.  Everything else went to the second.

 

Illya wiped his hand off before opening the only letter, first studying the return address with a grin.

 

Napoleon's mother was a born letter writer and, every two months or so, Illya found himself on the receiving end of one such missive.  He always relished, yet dreaded, its arrival for it meant he now 'owed' her a letter.  So much of his time and work was classified and, therefore, unmentionable, it was always a strain for him to come up with enough topics to fill one page.  This was in spite of the fact that she insisted that he wrote the most colorful, interesting letters she received.  Illya suspected she was merely being kind.

 

He read it, smiling at the mental pictures she painted, never noticing that his taco sauce had oozed over onto a "Special Offer for You" notice until it was much too late to save it.

 

 With a deft, practiced move, he swept it and the paper remains of his dinner into the trashcan.  That done, he picked up his remaining mail and walked to his bed to stretch out.  He finished the rest of his tostada and the letter, taking care to tuck the latter safely away in a drawer.  It would please her to know he saved her letters, not so much because they were particularly noteworthy, but because they gave him a sense of balance in his often 'gone crazy' world.

 

 Illya spent the bulk of the next few hours sipping from the flask of tequila Garcia had tucked in with his dinner and thumbing through his technical magazines, taking mental notes.  At the knock on the door, he sat up, suddenly aware that it was closing in on 11 o'clock.  That was hardly the time for visitors and he was immediately on alert.  It could be Napoleon, disheartened after an unsuccessful conquest, but then again, it might not be.

 

Illya pulled his Walther P‑38 free from its holster and sidled over to the door.  "Yes?"

 

"Illya, dear, it's Grandmamma."

 

It took him a moment to figure that one out, then he smiled and opened the door.  "Grandmamma Addams, what are you doing here?" he asked the stout, white-haired, bag-laden old woman.

 

 "Just passing through.  You know how my grandson loves to play the stock market and I needed some dried bat’s blood.  It’s so hard to get it from the source these days."

 

Illya thought it too rude to point out that the stock market had been and would be closed for hours.  He had the sneaking suspicion that for Gomez Addams, they would open it.  Instead, he welcomed her in, knowing she would not be offended by his lack of tidiness.

 

 And so it went.  While Illya brewed up a pot of special tea he'd found on his last trip to Tibet, they sat and talked.  The discussion drifted from the interesting new fungus he'd discovered in Argentina to the fact that it really was too wet this year for any decent Nightcaps.  The perfect grandmother, Grandmamma had even come complete with cookies, some made with dandelions, others with thistles.  Illya, in the interests of science, tried both.

 

He drained the last of his tea and the woman reached for his cup.

 

"I didn't know you read tea leaves."  Illya leaned forward, interested.

 

 "Oh, my yes, I learned many years ago.  Benedict Arnold always had the strangest reactions to my readings though.”

 

 Illya smiled and indicated his cup.  "What do they say?"

 

"All good things must come to an end."  Grandmamma was puzzled.  "I was expecting more from this tea. That's not very cryptic.  It sounds like it’s from a fortune cookie."

 

"Life seldom is very straight forward.  It’s one of its advantages."

 

                                                                                ****

 

Yawning, Illya Kuryakin walked past various knots of people that populated the corridors of UNCLE HQ.  He occasionally acknowledged greetings and returned waves. There were many people he didn't recognize, not that that particularly bothered him.  Having worked out of various offices, he was used to it.

 

 He stopped at a nondescript door and it slid open. Unconsciously, Illya held his breath until he cleared a partition and could see his desk.  His relief came as a big sigh.  True, it was stacked with papers, but not as bad as he'd seen it.  Perhaps today wouldn't be as bad as he had feared.  He might even get to the report today, if Napoleon could find his notes, that is.  He set his briefcase on the nearest corner and shrugged off his jacket.  Pulling out his glasses, he sat down to work. 

 

Actually, it was very similar to what he'd done the night before, breaking everything into three neat piles.  It quickly got the garbage material out of his way and permitted him to turn his attention to more pressing items.  His only regret was that he hadn't brought any of Grandmamma’s cookies with him.

 

 A soft "Excuse me, Mr. Kuryakin?" pulled his attention from his work and he pulled off his glasses as he looked up. Before him stood a woman, dressed in the standard white shirt and dark skirt that all female operatives wore.  She held a tray in her hands and a pad beneath one arm.

 

“I thought you'd be ready for some coffee and perhaps some dictation."

 

  "Yes and no."  Illya reached for the proffered cup, permitting his features to soften.   "Thank you, Miss Sanders.  How are you this morning?  Any alarms or excursions?"

 

 "Nothing so far, but it's still early.  There is a raid going down today, but the details are still classified.  We did have a second stage alert today."  She passed over a sweet roll.

 

 "Oh?"  The blond eyebrows went up.

 

 "A lab tech lost a rat and it got into the wiring."

 

 "I'm sure he found it shocking."

 

 "So did all the secretaries who had to smell roasted rat for an hour afterwards."

 

"That's a cheery thought."  She turned to leave, but Illya held up a hand.  "Miss Sanders, could you ask Mr. Solo to step in here for a moment, please?"

 

"Mr. Solo is not in yet nor has he phoned.  Mr. Waverly has been notified."

 

 "How odd.”  His partner was usually quite punctual or at least he called in with an excuse.  “When he does show up, let him know I’d like to see him to go over his notes."

 

"Not half as much as Mr. Waverly would."

 

"I'll bet."  Illya watched her leave, his light tone contrasting with the concern he felt.  It was a feeling that grew as more and more time passed.

 

He finally gave up trying to concentrate on work and headed for the cafeteria.  His appetite, usually untamable, apparently stayed in his office.  He took a tuna sandwich for the sake of it, but ended up merely toying with it.  A loudspeaker crackled to life and Illya waited for the announcement, as did all the other various personnel. It was amazing how quickly so many people became silent.

 

“Would Mr. Kuryakin report to Mr. Waverly's office immediately?  Would..."

 

 Illya didn't need to hear it again; he was gone before the message finished.  He had a good idea what his superior wanted him for.

 

 Alexander Waverly, head of the North American UNCLE office, sat at the circular conference table that took up a large chunk of his office.  Before him were spread various reports and one hand tapped a sheet as he read.  The other was firmly wrapped about the bowl of a briar pipe.

 

 The old man didn't acknowledge his presence, but the Russian's experience told him Waverly was conscious of his every breath.  He remained standing until Waverly looked up and pointed to a chair.

 

 "We have a problem, Mr. Kuryakin, namely a missing Section 2, Number 1."

 

 "Mr. Solo, yes, sir, I am aware of his absence."

 

 "Where is he, Mr. Kuryakin, this is what I would like to know.  What did he do last night?"

 

 "He had a date with a Miss...Dyer.  Red hair, green eyes, about 25, 5'8", approximately 110 pounds.  She met us at the airport and he was with her the last I knew."

 

"Was he familiar with her?"

 

"Very, I would say."  Illya didn't go into the sordid details.

 

"Find him, Mr. Kuryakin.  Alive, preferably.  We will have to operate under the suspicion that THRUSH has him until we know better."

 

"Yes, sir, and if they don't?"

 

 "If this is one of his dalliances, then he will wish THRUSH had.  Report any progress to me.  Good day."

 

"Good day, sir."  Illya rose and walked to the door, glad to be able to at last act upon his worries.

 

                                                                                ****

 

 Illya's first instinct was to check out Napoleon's apartment.  It was in more fashionable Manhattan, although he knew that Napoleon didn't make that much more than he did, probably less if you counted the revenue he drew from various publications and the bonds he'd set aside.  He didn’t know where Napoleon got his extra money from and didn’t really care.

 

 It was instinct that took him first to the parking garage.  Napoleon's Jag was gone, Miss Dyer’s red convertible in the Jag’s assigned space.  Illya drew his communicator out and pulled up the antennae.

 

 "Open Channel D please."

 

"Channel D is open."

 

"Miss Cooper, please put a trace on Mr. Solo's car.  It appears to be missing along with him.  Also run a check on license plate WGB 473."

 

"Acknowledged.  Is that it?"

 

 "For the moment.  Kuryakin out."  Illya tucked the communicator away and glanced about him.  Nothing seemed out of place and no little bells were ringing in his head.  Everything seemed perfectly normal.  That made him very uncomfortable.

 

 From the garage, he made his way up to Napoleon's apartment, slipping in easily with his plastic card. Gun drawn, he plastered himself against the wall.  The lights were still on and a quick look confirmed his fears; no Napoleon in the place.  Sighing, Illya tucked the pistol away and began a more complete search.

 

 A rumpled bed proved that Napoleon had been here initially, but not for long.  Illya pulled a strand of long red hair free from the pillow and shook his head ‑ it was obvious that Napoleon had seen more action than he had last night. In the closet, Napoleon's suitcase was standing in the corner, all its contents prepared for the next trip, just as Illya's was.  From there he moved to the bathroom. Again, there were traces of Napoleon having been around; towels, while neatly hung, were still slightly damp, and traces of perfume and cologne lingered.

 

Illya tried the kitchen next, but Napoleon hadn't left any mark there.  Instead, it was Miss Dyer.  The glass standing by the sink had lipstick staining its rim.  Unless, of course, Napoleon had a fetish Illya didn't know about.  The thought nearly made him laugh, helping to relieve the knot of tension that rode between his shoulder blades.

 

There weren't any other items out of place in the room and Illya began to rule out the suspicion that THRUSH had taken Napoleon here.  They didn't mind making a mess, usually leaving it as a calling card for UNCLE.

 

 Illya sank down into the overstuffed chair and pulled out his communicator when a telephone index caught his eye. The tab was moved down to the 'G' and, on an off chance, he pushed the release switch and the top sprang up.  True to form, there were numbers written down, but all lacked names. Illya studied them for a moment, and then reached for the phone.

 

 The first two numbers belonged to women, no surprise there, but the third number responded with a crisp "Giovanni’s Restaurante ‑ authentic Italian cuisine in a romantic atmosphere."  Illya hung up at that point and headed for his car.

 

                                                                                                ****

 

Giovanni proved to be, in reality, a Mr. Frank Olson - American, not Italian - but he had no trouble recognizing Napoleon from his photograph.

 

"Oh, yes, he was here.”

 

 "When?"

 

"His reservation was for nine, but he came a little early and sat in the bar with his good lady."

 

 "This lady, was she a red head?"

 

 "Very much so.  Quite a bit of spirit, that one.  We nearly had to curtain them off.  Usually, we wouldn't stand for it, but Mr. Solo is a frequent customer.  They had the Veal Scaloppini and Trout Almandine with a very nice Chardonnay."

 

 "Did they leave together?"

 

 "Yes, to go dancing, I believe.  Mr. Solo asked me if the Nandiva was open."

 

 "Nandiva?"

 

"A small establishment on West 4th.  Plays more progressive music than we do."

 

 That was where Illya's good luck ran out.  No one at Nandiva could be sure if they had seen Napoleon or not, possibly yes, possibly no.  The cigarette girl thought he'd bought a flower from her for a redhead.  Still, no one was certain.

 

 Illya trudged back to his car and collapsed back on the seat.  It was getting late and he was becoming truly concerned.  THRUSH didn't operate like this, unless, of course, this woman was one of theirs.  That prospect scared Illya, for he knew that fact wouldn't necessarily slow Napoleon down.  Rather, it seemed to urge him on for the sheer sake of the danger involved.  There were times when Illya didn't understand his partner’s thirst for dangerous liaisons at all.

 

 Instead, Illya put it from his mind and sat back to think what the next logical step would be.  After dinner and dancing, Illya would have taken his date back to her flat and left her for the night. Napoleon would have lingered, possibly just for drinks, but more than likely for the rest of the  
evening.

 

  _How different our lifestyles are_ , Illya thought, rubbing at the tension headache in his temples.  Napoleon was strictly the 'wine, women, and song' type while Illya spent the night with tequila, old ladies, Mexican food and books.  He felt little envy and no regrets.  He and Napoleon were definitely not birds of a feather ‑ this search was certainly proving that.

 

His communicator beeped and he hurried to answer it before it drew the attention of passersby.

 

"Kuryakin here."

 

"Mr. Kuryakin," Waverly's gravelly voice answered.  "We have found your red-haired Miss Dyer.  She is being escorted in as we speak.  I imagine you have a few questions you'd like to ask her."

 

"Great!  Any word on Napoleon's car?"

 

"Not good, I'm afraid.  The police are just pulling it from the New York Harbor."

 

 "That would certainly remove all traces of fowl play if THRUSH is indeed behind this. There's no more I can do out here so I'm heading in. Kuryakin out."

 

                                                                                ****

 

 Illya walked down the corridor and frowned.  It was hotter inside HQ than it was outside on the streets.

 

 "What's going on?"  He put the question to a passing shirt-sleeved Section 2.

 

 The man obviously recognized Illya and paled slightly.  "Ah, air conditioner malfunction, sir. Someone is working on it now and they expect to have it going by morning."

 

Illya almost expected him to salute.  He nodded and continued on, pulling off his jacket and loosening his tie as he walked.

 

He stepped into the interrogation suite and looked about for someone who knew what was happening.  Immediately, a woman operative approached him and handed him a clipboard.

 

"Emma Dyer.  The car you called in is registered to her." She indicated a partition with her head.  "She insists that she doesn't know anything about Napoleon, nor has she seen him in several months.”

 

 "We shall see about that."  Illya passed over his coat and squared his shoulders.  He didn't have much to look threatening with, but the gun and holster would help.

 

 He walked around the wall and glared at the back of a red head.

 

 "All right, where is Napoleon Solo?"  The woman turned from the table and Illya's face went blank.  "You aren't the one from the airport.  You weren't with Napoleon last night."  

 

He'd thought it was too good to be true and it was. There was a faint resemblance, but they had brought in the wrong person.

 

The woman looked as if she was ready to cry.  "Finally, someone agrees with me."  She took a deep breath, moving to calm herself.  "I admit that I know Napoleon Solo, but so do half the women in Manhattan."

 

Illya wasn't going to argue with that.  "You speak in the past tense.  Why?"  He sank into a chair across from her and pushed his hair back.  It was already starting to stick to his forehead.

 

 "I haven't seen him in several months.  He...dumped me."

 

 "Dumped?"  Illya knew what the word meant, but not in this context.

 

"Yes, he kept saying he had to visit a friend in the hospital...every night for almost a month!  Does that sound like much of a story to you?"

 

 Illya looked at her gravely and then, making a decision, unbuttoned the first three buttons of his shirt.  There, just to the side of the medallion he wore, was a bullet scar, puckered and still an ugly red; it would eventually fade to pink.

 

"Yes, it does, especially since I was the friend in the hospital.  I nearly died and Napoleon never left my side."  He permitted her the briefest of looks, and then closed up two of the buttons, leaving the top one undone. "Despite the casual, devil-may-care attitude Napoleon flaunts, he cares very deeply. If he was indeed going to ‘dump’ you, please give him the credit to have done so with grace and dignity."

 

 "I'm sorry, I didn't know."  Emma’s first reaction was confusion and then embarrassment.  "It's just that....well, I knew Napoleon wasn't the settling down type, Ginny kept telling me that, but it didn't help much."

 

"Ginny?"

 

 "My older sister."

 

 "Did this older sister by chance borrow your red convertible last night?"

 

 "How did you know that?"

 

 Illya buried his face in his hands and sighed, long and hard.  This wasn't the first time he’d wished he had a day to live over again, especially when Napoleon was involved.  Slowly, he drew the story from her ‑ from the initial meeting to the love-filled nights to the emotional collapse when she thought that Napoleon had had enough of her.

 

 "Ginny was wonderful throughout the whole thing.  She promised she'd get even with Napoleon.  I begged her to forget about it.  It just wasn’t worth it.  He wasn’t worth it."  Emma wrung Illya's handkerchief in her hands.  "I just didn't know she was really serious.  If she's hurt him, I don't know what I'll do."

 

 "I do." Illya's fists clenched at the thought.  "Where does she live?"

 

 "In Soho somewhere.  I'm not really sure.  She moves a lot."  At Illya's exasperated look, she added hurriedly, "I know where she works though.  It's a men’s clothing store. Melmore, I think it's called."

 

 

                                                                                                ****

 

 Illya leaned back on the sofa and sipped the champagne, grinning at the groan he heard.  "Still stiff?"

 

 Napoleon Solo glared at the Russian as he eased himself into the overstuffed seat.  "No, I'm fine; it's the fact that that is a $60 bottle of champagne you just popped the cork of."

 

"Oh that.  I thought we needed to do some celebrating. After all, we had pretty much decided you were a gone goose today..." He glanced at his watch and amended, "Well, yesterday, technically…”

 

"I think the term is cooked goose, Illya."  Napoleon reached for his glass.  "I knew you'd find me, it was merely a question of what I was going to lose first, my reputation or those briefs."

 

 Illya had arrived at the Melmore Clothing Store for Men to find it abandoned -- or so it seemed at first glance. True, there were no employees or customers on hand, but the store was hardly empty ‑ not if you counted the numerous window dummies.  And Illya discovered that you should especially count them when one of them turns out to be your partner.

 

 Napoleon had been among them, modeling, of all things, underwear.  He'd been stripped and clothed in nothing more than a pair of jockey shorts.  Then he was bent at the waist and draped with a black cloth so that he was visible only from the back and securely strapped down into position so that moving was impossible.  His legs were spray painted a glossy black so that he matched all the other mannequins.  From the window, he was indistinguishable from the rest.  Illya had resisted the urge to take photos, although he maintained that he could have gotten top dollar for them in the secretarial pool.  And getting the paint off had proven a long and painful process for Napoleon.

 

 "I'm just glad you got there before she came back." Napoleon paused to sip the wine.  "Heaven only knows what she would have had me modeling next."

 

 "With your body?  Probably garters and support hose.  I don't understand why you want to drop it, though.  I would have thought you would have wanted her blood."

 

 "Nah, she was only looking out for her sister.  Can't blame her for that and no real harm was done, except to my ego."

 

"Heaven knows that’s big enough to take a few blows," Illya quipped, then paused.  "Didn't anyone tell you about your Jag?"

 

 "What about it?"  Napoleon was all attention, especially considering how many payments he still owed.

 

"Well, you know how you're always bragging about its extras?"

 

"Yeah?  What?  Did she leave it parked downtown?  Did it get hit?  Did it get stripped?"

 

"Not exactly."

 

 "What's missing?"

 

 "Nothing really.  It's just that in addition to all the other added features of air conditioning, AM‑FM radio, leather seats and all that, you now have something else:  your very own swimming pool. They fished it out of New York Harbor about ten hours ago." To Napoleon's open mouthed stare, he raised his glass. " _Nostrovia."_

 

 


End file.
